


Burnt toast

by dabs_into_oblivion



Series: ASOUE post-canon [4]
Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 12:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19318243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabs_into_oblivion/pseuds/dabs_into_oblivion
Summary: Two wealthy, creative, intelligent adults still can't cook.





	Burnt toast

**Author's Note:**

> do i use violet or quigley or both as self inserts? h M

Violet rolls over, into him, nudging him from that delightful half-asleep state into being more fully awake. He rests his face in her hair, breathing in, his mind rolling over his body and counting the muscles that are relaxed, the ones that aren't. He notes the rigidity of her shoulders, even in sleep, a contrast to the serenity of her face. He drops a kiss on her head and rolls away, swinging his body up and bringing his feet to rest on the floor. Breakfast in bed sounds nice.

He slips his feet into slides and pads out to the kitchen, flicking a finger to raise the shades -- one of Violet's inventions -- and wincing slightly at the brightness. He runs a hand through his hair, which he's sure is sticking up. Doesn't matter. He's not here to look pretty. Now, where's the bread?

Minutes later, he has eggs and bacon sizzling on the stove and slices of bread in the toaster. He whirls around the kitchen, wondering how Sunny does this for a living without breaking anything. Plates, trays, knives and forks, glasses of juice -- neither he nor Violet drinks coffee -- is he forgetting anything? He flips the eggs, only breaking two yolks (!), and gingerly grasps the ends of the bacon strips with tongs and turns them, laying them gently back in their own grease. Flips the eggs again, this time onto the plates, and lays the bacon in a lattice formation . . .

Quigley isn't there. She smells him on the sheets, feels his warmth, but he's not in the bed. She sits up, rubbing her face. And then the smoke alarm goes off.

She sprints to the kitchen to find a contrite Quigley with two plates and a toaster filled with blackened bread. A laugh tugs at the corners of her mouth, but she tamps it down at the look in his eyes. Pressing a kiss to his lips, she says, "I can make the toast."

So she cleans the toaster out and puts fresh bread in. She has every intention of watching it like a hawk, but just then Quigley comes behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, burying his face in the corner of her neck and shoulder, and she loses track of everything except him. He sways gently and she follows him, his mouth leaving hot little pockets across her shoulder, up her neck, and she turns her head to kiss him, and the smoke alarm rings again.

They jump apart. She looks like she might cry. He can't control his laugh, and then she's laughing too, and they clean the toaster out, again, together, and they eat sitting in bed, no toast, with their legs tangled together.


End file.
